You bridged over troubled waters Allowing the broken wood under my naked feet to move and sway  but never break. I wonder what holds us up. Even in splintered feet and clanking of pressure, it holds the sweet smell of bloated wood after a fresh rain.  I was told to open my eyes  exposed to Heavenly skie s in the eye of the storm within the bare soul that is mine and I walked. With trepidation Hesitation  and pure Elation all wrapped in the pouring rainsthe lightning overhead the hailing winds. I wonder what's in this shield. Past a pure arc of  umbrella'd love, repelling drip drops of  moving rain, skidding off of man made fibers.  Comfort rest assured. Comfort.  the pure blanket of which I shiver for to crave that heartbeat against my skin encased within the strong linen that is your arms. I wonder how your fibers made fabric. Strong enough to hold me. Encase me. Enrapture me into limbs that spread east and west, a...

Writer Seeker of Words Lifts her pen in anguish At this little thing called writer's block Poet. -b.r.rivera Poem 29 of 30, April 2012 #30in30 A Cinquain.

I know the feeling to be loved. to be wanted. adored. showered in sprinkles and anger droplets formed near the crevice of the eye but we dare not speak of. No. It's too hard to speak of loving to be wanted. adored. showered in fiery liquid spurts formed between linen sheets and thunderous thighs. but we do not dare speak of it. Yes. It's too wonderful to remember the wanting to be loved. adored. showered in subliminal thought clouds following me in rude awakenings and sweet reveries. I know the feeling to be loved. I do know the loving adornment the showering of gifts and small trinkets of remembrance. But we dare to recollect the time. Date. Exact moment. No. It's too painful to even remember the flowers that wrinkled in time desiring to be loved. adored. secretly being your umbrella in rain. A shelter of fortitude when pellets titter- patter on vinyl and plastic creating mildew stains. How I wish it were a parasol, shielding me from the ...

It begins with a light stab. A constant reminder of who's in control and who isn't.  Let's me be awakened with boss like qualities of urgency with no employment, deadlines but no place to go. Then it begins to sizzle. Sizzle like fire acid rain down the curvatures of what holds me together.  But I'm not together. Here, I am a jumbled mess of confusion, a chaotic place of nerve endings and muscle fibers begging for rest. Do I dare to stop? Do I dare to state that I am not done with this life (nor the next) so I must simply just enjoy what has been given to me. This is my place. Not a resting place. Not a place begging for a wired hangar to be anchored on a glossy doorknob, shining of beautiful welcomes and scents of candles within. No. This is something new, entirely. This is my place. A place where lightning shoots through the neck and electrifies my insides. This is a place where I drag my feet and droop when I wince in subtle positio...

I. Sweet temptation is nothing more than desiring gifts of cake and eating it too. II. Wasted years , Wasted Tears a  constant reminder that  love chooses you stupid Cupid. III. A grave is nothing  but a box filled of bones begging to enter again into history.  IV. A fool twice believes the first tale and secretly hopes for another ending. V. They sure do talk don't they?  when all  is jibber jabber from the same source. VI. God is  simply because He exists, and all others fail in comparison. VII. I always pity the flowery language that Poets use which never bloom on paper. -b.r.rivera #30in30 Poem 26 of 30. (although this is many poems, I'm just counting it as one for the challenge.) A series of 7 Naani.  Each naani is an individual poem. This fixed form of Indian Poetry has 20-25 syllables of 4 lines with no rhyme scheme, and is an "expression" for one...

How do I get up there, Mommy? I want to fly. I want these things flapping on my side to swiftly embrace the sky. I can't figure it out. I looked at those fuzzy balls of fur slowly making their way up in those cotton balls and trees blowing up probably by an invisible man. How do I get up there, Mommy? I want to fly. I want these things flapping on my side to swiftly embrace the sky. It must be a magic trick Some sort of balloon in helium magic wisp of puffing up like a cartoon and have the sun hit your face like an orange fire ball in the afternoon. So she bends down softly and says, Do you wish to know how to fly? Well, surely my toddler brain knows I want to go up that high. Then she arches her back and swoops me up a bundle of chocolate with flapping arms lifts me to the ceiling and says there is no limit when you got a little push and falling will never be your harm. See how I get up there, Mommy? Look at me, fly. I finally got these thing...

I am more than what meets the eye. Soul deep and waters instilled form a ripple of a wave,  thrashing into the abyss like brain stems enter cerebellum exit clever calculable characteristics and into Chuck Taylor's jeans and a tee more than denim and sneakers more than poetic meanderings. I am more than what meets the eye Spiritual newness and cultural edifice pounding life after death and life into death like not holier than though loveliness I am more than meets the eye. Dare to see? Dare to capture and captive me? Dare to look beyond skin color and ethnicity? Dare to become less stereotypes and more of my type where lines shift into invisibility? I am more than meets the eye. -b.r.rivera #30in30 Poem 24 of 30

Reach out and tell me  how many stars are in the sky. Count 1-2-3-4 and realize you cannot count that high. Reach out and tell me do solar flares gravitate brilliance Squint to see its hues of variation and realize its beyond your resilience. Reach out and tell me can a thousand moons tug a war at beauty Follow its map through orbits and realize it's only God's duty. Reach out and tell me can a blanket of darkness sparkle in such shine? Silently whisper a breathless affirmation and realize you too, can be divine. -b.r.rivera Poem 23 of 30, April 2012 #30in30 

I wish I were an artist. Trace your curvature of lines in vivid detail and remark on the thickness smooth lips as they intense with hues of graphite and stencil. Wish I could paint vividly. an encased reverie of just you and I to become we. oh, how I wish to be the stroke on your body and retrace its endings and firm beginnings, retold in pastels, water soluble paints and revamped historical perspectives. I only wish to capture the image of you. Recapture the soul and eyes of orbs encased in the human skull so hard to shift elements in globs of watercolor. tell tales of high cheekbones and broad shoulders free following of a pencil in raised eyebrows and sympathetic frowns. A white eraser clings nearby, swiftly chasing hopes and dreams, lines drawn dark holed black and now vanishing  in dematerialized crumpled portraits. -b.r.rivera Poem 22 of 30, April 2012 #30in30

Stay a little while longer, he would say Each breath closer to the nape of my neck Fingers move more in on the grounds before play Erogenous, the zones in which he dares to trek Come a little closer, he simply wishes Movements inching across broad horizons Suddenly, a captive to warm kisses Unable to move from what sleek cautions Relax a little more, he softly commands Detangling nerve muscle and tendons gripped in stress Rub softer and deeper in skilled mahogany hands Lift a shirt here, unbutton there...Monotonous undress. In eyes that saw me so beautifully and divinely clothed, His only desire to see another check mark disrobed. -b.r.rivera #30in30 Poem 21 of 30 A Shakespearean Sonnet.  Fixed form of 3 quatrains, 1 couplet with abab, cdcd, efef gg.

This one particular man stands as prolific in my mind. Something about how the wild bird doesn't feel sorry for itself even in its frozen state. How secretly a broken wing challenges the raw Rocky-esque like stature the creature has. Screaming Adriiaaannnn!!!! with blackened eyes and sweat glistening from silken feathers. I don't know if I believe in such things. Here. Now. Sitting in chronic pain, barely able to move injured disks that stab burn stink in prolific meanderings. I mean, who can call their self an orange fiery flamed bird, beaten down by life and spit out in graves, turned to ash only to rise again? I am not that bird. That quiet, beaked, songstress. Attempting to flutter bloodied bashing's against a steel cage, minuscule perforations of seed scattered unto the recreated soil that can't fool earth. Self pity. Woe is me. The woe is me mentality framed in photographs where flight leaves the orbs of my eyes and ...

its broken. kinda like the sweet sparrow dropping hard from its nest its wing flapping hard against the dust of the earth eyes wild and unforgiving, trying hard not to feel sorry for itself and establishes within its mind that it has a broken wing. i wonder if I can fix it. be the invisible cast crimson in creation where miracles happen beyond the skies in pleasurable and comfortable existence. its discarded. merely a decomposed state of composition hidden with maggots and live insects swarming to infect and circumspect the small pieces of flesh exposed from hard calcified bone and marrow. it lays there, a piece blowing in the wind no longer recyclable to be sorted in large aqua blue tubs to be reinvented into plastic cups that once again, someone will throw away. and I wonder. wonder if I can fix it.  be the mending stitch that sways smooth firmness on  supple skin, avoiding infection and  regaining cellular regeneratio...

He loves me. We call this our secret place. our holy divine shining from the sky awkward and amusing feeling in the nook of your shoulder sacredness. here, I am hidden from all those that want to destroy me. you, my glorious prince and beautifully sun-kissed with no white horse but still defend me. and I want to live here. In this space. Forget about all time and dimension, hold unto a little sanctified beauty and lose my religion at the mere thought of you. He loves me not. We call it not seeing eye to eye. A fragment of losing control and too much stimuli. How raised voices become the ever present norm Cold shoulders and turned backs become the norm. here, I am the bitch you kick in the corner forgetting I snarl and bite back so who's to warn her of sleepless nights and insomnia filled moons Forget about everything and nothing and lose myself in doom at the mere thought of you. He loves me. We call this our beautiful beginning. Another day mark...

I don't remember his scent. I only remember fresh musk and dew sweat hidden in his sudden fragrance. How skin meets beyond pheromones and mutual attraction fire and desire and the chain to cause his reaction. A smile. gleaming white teeth filled with shiny pearl possibilities of tickling my spine in the nape of my neck brings the thrill to me. i begin to remember. remember his smooth walk of gliding asphalt and what I call swag. Smoke bellowing from his lips cigarettes of menthol in a wisp of his drag. and his talk. the way he would command his voice in clear octaves, bounce several degrees and be a lyrical gift go deeper, deeper still into jazzy voices and sweet hellos hidden goodbyes and empty cries. he was mine. I was his and I don't remember his scent. Don't remember his birthday which to pop out a cake suit-less anniversary marking a date full of love excess his favorite food he often devoured his special spot that gave me ...

Somewhere, somehow, someone doesn't make it. Suffer the world. Suffer the children. Suffer the little intricate moments that form inter connection and hopeless dances with the nasal passages that breathe in air. We can't help it. We fight religion and form philosophical debates formed on chance recognition of miracles seen in the naked eye. we hope. we don't hope. we pray. we beg. Somewhere, somehow, some way someone won't make it another day. Then we ponder. Pull out biblical texts switch out to the Qur'an and shadow the beauty of Buddhism. We wonder. We think of theism and anti-theism, we entertain the thought of being without it and squeal in delight. No one knows. Each face a marbled reincarnation of their tombstone to be. We claim to gain higher ground with those stricken with cancer vow to find a vaccine that can cure heart disease campaign against drunk driving and work on an imaginary war on drugs where soldiers themsel...

I like my body when it is with your body. Our voices echo. Magnifying your arrival. It is so quite new a thing. New statue...In a drafty museum. Your nakedness Shadows our safety. Sweet voice. Sweet Lips. Soft Hands, and softer Body remember not only how much you were loved. Hard to imagine getting anywhere near another semi nude encounter down this concrete slab  of interstate, the two of us all thumbs not only the beds where you lay, but also those desires for you. To play without shame. To be a woman, who feels only the pleasure of being used and who reanimates the user's... Best get down on all fours. Ease our noses past rear-end collisions wrapped around embracing minds, and hearts exhang'd for hearts. don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self love. i like my body when it is with your body. eyes big love-crumbs and possibly i like the thrill of under me you so quite new. -b.r.rivera a Found Poem. ...

arms enclosing me in a circular being  feel quick, a heartbeat -b.r.rivera 14 of 30, April 2012 #30in30 A Senryu. 

Write she says Soy Poet but she's a front all flowery language and tricks of words. she cannot fully understand this art reserved realness phony girl Poet? No. Words she will attempt to disrespect the real artistry of lyrical genius add a sprinkle of cutesy photographs place them in ink pretend words titled fraud. -b.r.rivera 13 of 30 #30in30 A Tetractys ; this fixed form has strict syllable/line count.

they miss the spirituality of the trees. the faint whisper of breath in oxygenated richness, the firm application of smoothness eloquently divine on the skin's surface. they miss the impartial breeze hitting blades of chloro-filled to the brim excitement of buds and the promise of another day. there's a reminder. a dancing metamorphosis barely young enough to hold unto the quaint swivel of the bark inching towards its cocoon, fluttering on the thin line of greatness. in the blink of an eye dismissed by smog ridden darkness electric buzz of cars and the flight of Starbucks cups filled to the brim of nothing, caffeinated the rush go go go, swiftly toes graze over grass enticingly as elusive engine drones to forget the brilliance of the sky. -b.r.rivera 12 if 30, April 2012 #30in30

eyes call you soul. flames dance  melting candle wax figures silhouette in night stunning electric in hummed delight shadows meld the complexities of cells bursting through windowpanes and slick blinds again moonlight shines subliminally crescent divine we own the dark soul you call eyes. -b.r.rivera 11 of 30, April 2012 #30in30

I remember he wanted to marry me enclosed spaces shared tiniest of details How I suddenly became the girl of "we." that was years ago. End of a tragic tale. Even a ring was placed on my finger as a reminder for a day to with no pizzaz somewhere absent church bells ring old, turn and chime Something new, now blue. He said he would be mine. -b.r.rivera A   Rispetto . #30in30 Poem 10 of 30, April 2012

All hail the Easter Bunny. There are promises of eggs. Little small gifts enclosed in plastic oval shapes, smelling of new chemicals freshly pressed from large manufacturing companies. My gift to the weather. A small token of spring. Perhaps the swiftness and cool eyed crispness deserves better awakenings than Folgers in your cup and effervescence scalding hot in aging fingers. It's all daisies, ribbons, and freshly starched outfits pressed for the deadline on velvety pews, gotta make it on time in the rush of traffic where runways are composed of yellow dashed lines and patent leather shoes pressed to the metal of gas ignitions. Who needs a Bible? We all have our outfits and hopefully unstained chocolate pressed against our lips honoring the risen from a sealed tomb after three days after the cry of vinegar quenched lips and warm blood dusty from a crown of thorns. Let me celebrate once. Once in my life, go to an edifice filled with familiar tunes and paper ...

The forget me not gifts loose petals falling down as a reminder -b.r.rivera #30in30 8 of 30, April 2012 A Senryu . 

I go where my muse takes me. Come along, Pond! Says my Doctor Who like muse Riddled in red fez and swirling with a tangled mop about his head He wants me to fly in the blue police box filled with infinite wonder Sky high to literary heights and pull the lever at the sound of thunder Ripple in time and be the wastebaskets friend filled with wibbly wobbly stuff and stanzas to no end. I go where my muse takes me. Pop the red balloon! Whispers the old lady rocking hush Crocheting with my special hooks designed as pens next to the bowl full of mush. Hear little mice carry on about proper grammar next to the fire Sprinkle a line here and there bunnies playing near the sock as I retire Softly I go into oblivion, resting by the Sandman's ease Goodnight moon, as I write calligraphy in my dreams. I go where my muse takes me. Sip the Earl Grey! Frantically screams the Hatter like idea Tipping to and fro in my Underland ideas Brainstorm to a talking cat, invisible to the ...

My plants are dying. Some wither by the wayside. Others, destined in their own chlorophyll psychedelic mindfuck reach out to the Heavens and are Hell bent on finding the sustenance of the sun. I wonder if its the soil. Mixed parts with fertilizer and the such but we all know the grass is greener on the other side. Probably sunnier there too. Warm. The kind of weather where women flaunt their parasols and gloved white hands, pearls dancing off the sunglasses of the husbands that mow just near the picket fence. Maybe its too much water. leaves are perkier with just enough bounce, sturdy to the prickly fuzzy knees of bees. At least the lady bugs enjoy them. They seem to surround themselves near waxy goodness polka dots and dance trots to and fro the emptiness of withered hope. Couldn't be the roots. Oh, God...not the roots. Mind as well rip up the entire earth that surrounds them, throw them in the air and let the silken strands fall where they may. invisi...

She's a shell, you know. Some sort of fat humpty dumpty look a like skin un-kissed by the warmth of the sun. She's never seen what its like to allow the dimples to careen into deep valleys whiten the glazed over eyes of youth in almost porcelain enamels challenge the hurried hours in a curl of a moist lip. who knows what enters the mind at the middle of the playground dust and dirt kicked up to the pressed starchiness and itchiness of stockings. A reminder of delicate legs and shapely hips, bursting out to enter adolescence but pulled back in ribbons and plaits worn in her time. they scream at her, you know. some kind of words learned from their environment where the mother is a bitch from handing the daddies their plates cold the father is a motherfucker from a stain of red on a collar the dog is a shitter from a pound where only mixed breeds die and the child still lays in the womb as audio obscenities blast auto-tune in its fetal po...

I did not choose to love you, I am told Cause you can't help who you love. We're all prisoners here, invisible shackles taking control I did not choose to love you, I am told. I despise fate. Hate to think I'm a conquest, a figurine, extolled Shapeless drones punctured in pain by an arrow fired from distant places I did not choose to love you, I am told. Cause you cant help...who you love. -b.r.rivera #30in30 A Triolet Poem 4 of 30, April 2012.

you don't ever need to cry for me souls empty where tears will begin numbness has its fixation lone in sweet sedation. warmth is familiar in sad goodbyes and hellos told in smiles. -b.r.rivera #30in30 Poem 3 of 30, 2012 A Nonet .

she's all lipstick glossy pink hues and eyeliner on lids pressed darkly on a slant in the midnight hour. Lips affirming the sweet taste an exhausting abuse of malignant power. she's all hips mesmerizing mystique of an melting goddess oozing liquidity and familiarity feminine wiles and the very definition of what it is to be a beauty, nevertheless. she's all fingertips and Bobbi Brown mixed with the zest of Mac red colors raging mad against the moon shaped crescents of where originality lies and the smack of the lips- she's all stuffed and fluffed nipples high and gracing the Heavenly skies spilling out of Victoria's, entering Fredrick's and amassing on silken sheets unfamiliar in its territory where she's kissed. she's all of this and all of that perfume laced with toxic pheromones reeking of danger zones enter here and exit there to the south of the navel to the barren wastelands of innocence she's all design...

Silly little girl. She announced that her heart was on her sleeve bleeding red and pink smothered in satin hues tie dyed and worn as if the display had to be for the whole world to adorn. Silly little girl that played to and fro with the mere simplicity caring nothing of exposure, foreign objects and  bacterial disease scraping off bits from the venture of going to places a to z she carries her raggedy  old heart for the whole world to see Silly little girl wanted to announce that it was there for sharing made beautiful again by ribbons and bows for delicate hands  that holds no caring.  Robust by squeezing life again with hardly any feeling drums held in sync for the whole world  in beating Silly little girl said she did not longer care for a soul mate signed papers for her physician ordering do not resuscitate head held high, blood stain on her arm she felt the strain for the whole world to do harm She said Here is...